


Two Men

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 05:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1732127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A butler and a billionaire, a broken back and a broken bat. </p>
<p>Alfred and Bruce, after Bane.</p>
<p>(written before the release of TDKR).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Butler

 

It was many years ago that Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth found his way to Wayne Manor in the wake of his meeting with Thomas Wayne. He'd quietly retired from his previous employment in the service of several branches of Her Majesty's military, given up his hobby of acting and taken up butlering with no small level of aplomb.

He had imagined a quiet life then, looking after the obscenely wealthy Waynes. Thomas was working most of the time, Martha usually busy with her various charitable concerns, and when they weren't working, they were out together. They were very young, recently married and very much in love.

And then, along came Bruce. From the moment Martha had discovered the pregnancy, everything had changed. Thomas worked fewer hours, she went to less galas, and they spent much more time at home. Alfred had watched the dynamic in the house change completely, and when Bruce had been born, things had again changed. Thomas and Martha's entire worlds revolved around their son, more so as the years went on and he remained an only child.

When Thomas and Martha had died on that terrible night, there had been no question of anyone but Alfred raising the newly-orphaned Bruce. Alfred was the closest thing to family Bruce had, and indeed saw himself very much as part of the furniture in Wayne Manor. It was agreed that the best possible scenario for Bruce was to keep as much of his routine in place as they could, and so it was agreed that the boy-billionaire and his butler would continue to live in Wayne Manor.

As Alfred shifted the semi-conscious Batman onto the stretcher with the help of the attractive olive-skinned woman who was, like himself, dressed as a paramedic, that boy and their quiet mansion seemed so far away.

* * *

"Alfred…"

The quiet of the plane is broken for the first time since take-off by Bruce's hoarse voice.

"Yes, sir?"

"Where am I?"

So the sedatives worked. Good. Hopefully the bribes for the doctors will work as well.

"On the way to Zurich. You've had a skiing accident there, yesterday morning. The doctors aren't sure yet, but they think your back is broken."

The silence is crushing, a physical weight on the old man's chest.

"Will I… Will I ever walk again?"

"That, Master Wayne, is something only the doctors know."

Another silence, this one less intense.

"Is Selina alright?"

"Ms. Kyle mentioned something about taking a few weeks out to visit friends in Boston."

Alfred can see that it's difficult for Bruce to stay awake, so he makes no further comment and soon his charge is once more asleep.

* * *

Alfred suspected that the morphine was wearing off by the time they crossed into French airspace, but he said nothing. Bruce's pride wouldn't allow him to admit to being in pain, and Alfred knew that a point would come where his charge had no option but to ask for help – then and only then would he accept anything offered him.

It was only when the jet crossed the Swiss border that Bruce accepted defeat.

"Alfred? Are there any more painkillers in that bag of yours?"

Alfred already had the syringe primed and waiting, but he put it back in its case.

"The doctors recommend you not have any painkillers in your system when we arrived at the resort, sir. We're only about half an hour away now."

Talking seemed to help distract him from the pain, so Alfred decided to keep whatever conversation he could start going.

"Resort?"

"Well, I'm not going to sit at your bedside for however long we're here, sir."

"And I thought you cared, Alfred."

 _Oh,_  Alfred thought _, I care. I care more than you do, you bloody idiot_. But he couldn't say that. Not ever.

 

* * *

The Hotel Hof Weissbad was both enormous and very private. The staff didn't seem fazed by the American billionaire who needed to lie about the circumstances in which he broke his heavily scarred back. While Bruce was wheeled away on a surprisingly comfortable looking trolley to meet the first of his doctors, Alfred was led to their suite.

He was delighted to find that the 24-hour buffet on their floor was indeed open, and that it served a wide array of teas. He decided on a Darjeeling, and retired to the living area of the suite to enjoy it.

He was almost finished his first cup and was planning on perhaps switching brews and having a Lady Grey when the knock came on the door.

"Your companion is under heavy sedation awaiting the arrival of our neurosurgeon from Zurich," the young man with the vaguely German-accented English told him. "You are welcome to wait here, or you may wish to visit him in the clinic."

"Do they allow food and drink in the clinic?"

"Yes, sir, they do. Would you like another cup of Darjeeling? It can be waiting for you when you arrive."

"A Lady Grey, actually. I'll come to the clinic now."

 

* * *

Bruce was indeed under sedation, but it wasn't strong enough to render him unconscious. He just sounded marvellously drunk.

"Don't usually operate like this," he slurred. "Nurse said don't usually take in like me either."

"Money is a wonderful thing, sir," Alfred said mildly, sipping his rather excellent tea. "I dare say even among this company you'll still be counted fabulously wealthy."

"How long from Zurich?"

"About thirty minutes or so. The surgeon isn't flying by Lear jet, after all."

"Oh. 'Kay."

He seemed to doze then, and Alfred took the opportunity to investigate his other, less pressing injuries. The now-set broken nose, for example. The bruising on his temple, or what seemed to have been a dislocated shoulder. A broken collarbone, perhaps, given the way his arm was pinned across his chest.

Alfred sighed, leaned back and smiled as his cup of tea was replaced with a fresh one. This was the best place for Bruce to be – he could get well here, without the awkward questions that would present themselves back home.

 

* * *

Alfred was guided back to the suite when the surgeon from Zurich arrived. He was a small, neat man with glasses and slicked-back hair. Alfred was sure that Bruce was in safe hands, and was perfectly comfortable with returning to the suite because he had a few calls to make.

The excuse they had given the doctors for the state of Bruce's back was an overly competitive round of spelunking with a companion who was about to turn professional in the sport. The doctors had laughed and called Bruce a lunatic, and he'd promptly turned to Alfred for support. In a moment's reprieve, when it had just been the two of them, Bruce had asked Alfred if he thought that his sanity was questionable.

"Such rot, sir," he'd replied. "Why, you're the very model of sanity." Then he'd lifted his copy of  _Le Matin_ and disappeared behind its trusty broadsheet folds. "Oh, by the way, sir - I pressed your tights and put away your exploding gas balls."

His humour had gone unappreciated, of course, but there was no accounting for taste.

 

* * *

The first call was to Selina Kyle.

" _Alfred? Is that you? How is he?"_

"His surgeon arrived not half an hour ago, Ms. Kyle, and he's due to be in theatre before noon."

" _Noon? What time is it in… Europe?"_

"Several times, I imagine, Ms Kyle, but in Switzerland, it's almost nine o'clock in the morning. Master Wayne needs to be prepared for surgery, and the results of the tests they performed on him overnight need to be assessed. I shall call you again as soon as I have news."

_Thank you, Alfred. Let him know I'm thinking of him."_

"As soon as he's lucid, Ms Kyle, I'll do just that."

 

* * *

The next call was to Lucius Fox.

" _Alfred, we've had this conversation how many times now?"_

"Master Wayne was never lying in a hospital bed in a Swiss health clinic with a broken back during our conversations before, Lucius."

There's a moment of stunned silence before Lucius finds his voice again.

" _His back is broken? Good God, Alfred, what was he- No, wait, it's on the news now. How did you manage to delay it?"_

"I didn't. This Bane character is controlling most of the mob now. Master Wayne has already signed the papers, Lucius. I've faxed them to the lawyers – all you need to do is turn up at the office and give the police the biggest guns Wayne Enterprises has to offer."

" _When I walked away from this job, Alfred… I never imagined I'd be needed back. Not like this."_

"I'm sorry, Lucius, but we need someone trustworthy in the job until Master Wayne heals, and probably after that, too. Will you accept?"

" _I don't really have a choice, do I? Thomas did this too, except his excuse was that he was leaving to go to med school. I'll call you this evening with news."_

"Thank you, Lucius."

 

* * *

And then Alfred called room service, and asked the nice young man if he knew anywhere that sold men's silk pyjamas, and slippers with a sturdy sole. The young man didn't, but he promised to find out.

 

* * *

Five days in the Hotel Hof Weissbad without company beyond the ever-friendly staff was quite enough. Bruce was spending most of his time under heavy sedation, awaiting each new round of surgery, and Alfred had made some calls, ones that didn't reach back to Gotham.

He was sitting in a small café, enjoying the late August sunshine and sipping a cup of Assam tea sweetened just so. He had a pleasant view across a pretty lake, an even more pleasant view of the pretty middle-aged Swiss café owner and-

" _Bonjour, Papa_ ," came that familiar voice, with just a hint of laughter.

"None of that," he said mock-warningly as he set down his tea and stood to greet his daughter, Julia. "You know speaking French gives me a headache."

"But you are in Switzerland now, Papa. To speak French is more natural than to speak English," she teased. "What brings you to Europe?"

"My employer had an accident," he informed her. "We're staying at the Hotel Hof Weissbad."

Julia's eyes widened. "He must be quite ill."

"They think his back is broken."

"Oh my," she gasped. "Poor Bruce."

"He's going to be fine," Alfred said dismissively. "He always is. One good thing to come of this is that he might finally have a decent rest."

"You never have been very clear on what exactly it is that exhausts him so thoroughly in your letters, Papa. Perhaps now would be a good time to start?"

The café owner appeared then, winked at Alfred and said something to Julia in rapid French.

" _Une frappé, s'il vous plaît,"_ she replied with a smile. The older woman said something else, to which Julia laughed, and then she went to fill the order.

"Care to share?"

"Oh, she mentioned something about my charming companion flirting in remarkably good French, considering he's an Englishman."

Alfred smiled. He'd missed Julia.

 

* * *

"Master Wayne? You have a visitor, if you're awake."

"'m awake," Bruce mumbled, not opening his eyes and not moving in the bed. His fingers were wrapped tightly around the morphine pump the doctors had supplied him with, but Alfred was relieved to see that the IV bag containing the morphine was still almost full.

"You know," he said, leading Julia into the room, "the doctors gave you that morphine for a reason."

"Don't want it."

"Well, that's a very mature stance to take," Julia said, closing the door behind her.

Bruce's eyes snapped open. "Julia."

"In the flesh," she agreed, swooping down to kiss him on either cheek. "You have been in the wars, no?"

"Something like that," he said, smiling as best he could. Alfred saw Bruce's thumb press the button on the morphine pump.

"Do not worry," Julia said, stroking Bruce's hair in that motherly way of hers. "Papa has told me everything. I will keep your secret, of course, but you must tell me – this lady of yours. Is she very beautiful?"

Alfred sat back in his seat and opened his newspaper. He kept an eye on Julia and Bruce. One, the child he'd actually fathered and who had been raised with little or no input from him, the other the child he'd adopted in all but name. Julia was only some ten years older than Bruce, but she'd lived such a full life that, in some ways, she seemed much older even than that.

"Hey, Papa, did you call Mama?"

Alfred looked up, surprised and a little embarrassed by the question.

"No, not yet," he lied, because he had no intention of calling Marie, Julia's mother. Their relationship was frosty at best, mainly because he had refused to move to France when Marie had revealed the pregnancy and instead stubbornly insisted that she move to England. Of course, it probably hadn't helped that he'd been in South Africa when Julia was actually born, either.

"Meaning you don't think you should call Mama," Julia deduced, and Alfred was less than pleased to notice the conspirator's smile that was just about discernable on Bruce's weary face. "She'd like to see you, Papa."

He eyed the two of them, Bruce a wreck of bandages in the hospital bed, Julia perched beside him in her beret and summer dress, and he realised that bringing them together had been, as usual, a bad idea.

"If I call Marie, may I spend the rest of my time in Switzerland in peace?"

"If Mama knows you're here, Papa? Hardly."

 

* * *

"Marie?"

" _Alfred. Julia mentioned that you were in the country."_

"So you did move to Switzerland, then. Interesting. I seem to remember a time when you wouldn't entertain the idea of leaving Paris, never mind France."

" _Times change, Alfred. Circumstances change. Would you like to meet?"_

"I'll have Julia bring you to the café we met at today. Say tomorrow afternoon? Around three?"

" _I'll see you there. And Alfred?"_

"Yes, Marie?"

" _Don't look shocked, alright?"_

 

* * *

Bruce was having a bad night. He wasn't due another surgery for four days, but he was in agony.

And he was having nightmares. A nurse arrived at the door of the suite at three in the morning to rouse Alfred in the hopes that the old man would hold the key to Bruce's peaceful slumber. Even when heavily sedated, it seemed, Bruce was trapped in nightmares.

Bats and gunshots, Alfred knew. Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent and Bane, and Selina Kyle and Jim Gordon and the Joker, and all of Gotham twisted into a mess even darker than the reality.

But mainly, it was bats and gunshots, with Thomas Wayne's final words and Martha Wayne's pearls rolling into the gutter. Alfred knew, because even though he hadn't been there, those same things haunted his own darkest dreams.

"I think I know what will help," he said to the nurse. "There wouldn't be a music player of some description in the room, would there?"

The doctors seem astonished that all it took to calm Bruce's nightmares was a little soft jazz.

"I've raised him single-handedly since he was eight years old," Alfred commented mildly, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. He looked back through the glass panel, making sure Bruce was sleeping now. "I know how to deal with his nightmares."

"These are common?"

"He saw his parents gunned down when he was eight, and he lost his closest friend in an explosion last year. Yes, nightmares are a common occurrence."

 

* * *

Before retiring once more for the remainder of the night, Alfred treated himself to a cup of Kahwah tea, and he accepted a call from Lucius Fox. Apparently, most of Gotham wanted a mailing address so they could send messages of good will to Bruce.

Alfred told Lucius that sending everything to the Manor would do nicely, thank you very much.

 

* * *

Alfred treated himself to a lie-on the following morning, deciding that it was both well-deserved and long overdue. He didn't get out of bed until half-past nine.

The buffet provided an excellent breakfast of Keemum tea, fresh apricots, hot porridge (with slightly more honey than was probably healthy) and a tall glass of cold milk. There was also the most recent edition of Le Matin _,_ as well as several of the American papers, the English broadsheets and the main continental papers.

Alfred took copies of Le Matin, the New York Times, the Daily Telegraph, Neues Deutschland, Le Monde and the Wall Street Journal and, having finished his breakfast, made his way to the café where he was due to meet Julia and Marie for lunch. It was almost quarter to eleven when he arrived, and they weren't due until half past twelve, so he had plenty of time to read his papers.

He'd even remembered his reading glasses. In the pleasant Swiss sunshine, with the pleasant café owner offering him a variety of herbal teas – home-brewed, she assured him – it was promising to be an overwhelmingly pleasant day.

 

* * *

Alfred and Marie had long ago come to an unspoken agreement that was fuelled by mutual pig-headedness. When they were together, even in Julia's company, he never spoke a word of English, and she never spoke a word of French. His French was about as passable as her English, and their conversations were always amusing for their daughter.

Today, for some reason, seemed different.

Alfred didn't hear Marie and Julia coming, and he jumped when Marie sat beside him and simply lifted the copy of the Telegraph and began reading. He looked up and found Julia, who seemed just as confused as he felt.

" _C'est beau de vous voir aussi,_ Marie."

"We're too old for this nonsense, Alfred. I'm seventy-three in a month and you're-"

"A butler has no age," he broke in teasingly. "And since when have we been too old for anything, Marie? I seem to remember you climbing Mount Kilimanjaro for your seventieth birthday."

"And only getting half-way there," she griped, tossing aside the newspaper. "Look at me, Alfred!"

He looked at her. She was, as she always had been, elegant even in stillness. Graceful, in a very French way, and quite beautiful in an incredibly haughty manner.

"You stopped dying your hair."

"Well, you seem to manage well enough with grey hair," she said with a dismissive wave of her gloved hand. "And those wretched English cardigans of yours."

He'd always found her distaste for what she counted  _English_  clothes amusing. "This was made in Ireland, actually. It was a gift from a friend there."

Marie smiled her knowing smile, and he had to laugh. She always assumed his friends were female.

"I'm far too busy to entertain the notion of a romance at the moment, Marie – Julia didn't tell you why I'm here?"

"No, she didn't. I assumed you were dying of something horrible and smelly."

"Hoped, more like it," he corrected, and she granted him a small smile. "The man I work for was in an accident. He broke his back, and he's being treated in the Hotel Hof Weissbad. It's quite nice, actually."

"Mon Dieu," she exclaimed. "How dreadful! He will get better, of course?"

Alfred's shrug is deceptively casual. "He's a Wayne. They're survivors."

And it seems, to Alfred anyways, that not speaking for almost twenty years has done wonders for his and Marie's relationship. He can almost remember how it was he fathered a child by her now.

 

* * *

The doctors have grim news when Alfred returns to the hospital wing that evening, full of tea and pain au chocolat.

"Mr. Wayne is experiencing some difficulties," the small neat man from Zurich explains. "We're confident that we'll be able to repair the damage to his spinal cord, and that the deep muscle trauma will heal, but there's some nerve damage that's troubling – and scarring from earlier injuries, too. We were wondering if, seeing as Mr. Wayne is under such heavy sedation, you might be able to explain to us where some of the scars came from?"

And this is precisely why they had to leave America for Bruce's treatment.

"Lead on, Doctor," Alfred says, tucking his hands into his cardigan pockets and following the surgeon along the corridor to Bruce's room.

How to explain the scars? Well, the truth was always an option, provided there was a substantial bribe in place to keep the good doctor quiet. Paying college fees was generally a good place to start.

"Have you any children, Doctor?"

 

* * *

The mystery of Bruce's scars explained, the doctors' job became much easier.

"His lower back has come under huge stress in recent years," Dr Bertrand, the small, neat man from Zurich who now had a trust fund to pay for the college education of his four children, explained. "Which could either complicate his healing or make it easier. He's remarkably strong, which means he should have no problems with his physical therapy, but there's also the problems with muscle atrophy in his legs and lower back-"

"He'll have the best physiotherapists in the world," Alfred assured the doctor. "There's nothing his money and the Wayne name can't buy, Doctor."

"Indeed, Mr. Pennyworth – and I'm sure that Mr. Wayne will have a full physical recovery. Has he ever spoken to a counsellor before?"

It took all of Alfred's considerable self-control not to laugh in the man's kindly, worried face. Bruce Wayne, see a counsellor? The idea was ludicrous. Even if, by some strange twist of fate, Bruce could be convinced to see a counsellor, he knew enough about psychology to have himself declared completely healthy in every way.

"I'll speak with Master Wayne about it when he starts to recover physically, Doctor, but expect him to be resistant to the idea."

 

* * *

"Well? Have they caught him yet?"

Alfred rereads the article on the computer screen in front of him, just to be absolutely sure. He doesn't want to misinform Bruce. Not with something so crucial as this.

"You could say that."

"What does that mean, Alfred?"

"It appears there was a fire-fight, sir. Bane is… Well sir, he's dead."

Bruce slumps back against his pillows, his pale face expressionless beyond the constant creases of pain around his eyes.

"Dead."

"So it seems, sir."

Something in Bruce's face changes, and Alfred senses that the younger man's recovery will progress at a quicker rate now.

 

* * *

Bruce has another surgery, his final one before their return to America, this morning. While he's being prepared for that, Alfred goes in search of somewhere that sells clothes, because he knows Bruce and knows that his charge will refuse to be seen in public in pyjamas, especially if he's going to be in a wheelchair.

The Bruce Wayne persona, the public one, is all about invincibility. Nothing fazes Bruce Wayne, not his European girlfriends "swimming" in the ornamental pool nor burning down his ancestral home nor coming through an accident that should have killed him with nothing more than possible paraplegia.

Alfred wonders if anyone will put Bruce's paraplegia together with Bane breaking Batman's back and realise that the two are related. He doubts it, but the fact that Batman's return will correlate precisely with Bruce's recovery is something that they should probably discuss.

Then it strikes him that he doesn't even consider the possibility that Bruce won't walk again. He passed it off with Marie because that's what he does, he promotes the invincible Prince of Gotham persona, but he didn't believe it himself until that moment.

Bruce Wayne will walk again. Alfred will help in any way he can.

 

* * *

This decision made, he begins to consider other cases of paraplegia he's seen over the years. There was, of course, his cousin Rupert, who shattered every bone in both his legs when his parachute failed after an evacuation from his fighter jet during the war, but he doesn't count. That nice young man he'd met in Burma, the one who'd been savaged by the tiger and couldn't walk because of it.

Hmm. Perhaps paraplegia isn't really the right word for it. He takes his laptop, the one Bruce insisted he buy, from his bag when he sits down at his favourite table in his favourite café and begins to research.

Hmm.

 

* * *

"The doctors said that you'll be well enough to fly soon."

This gets a surprised glance, but as Bruce is eating a real meal for the first time since their arrival in Switzerland five weeks ago, Alfred doesn't push the issue. He knows that Bruce will talk about it as soon as he's finished eating the entire buffet.

Half an hour later, when they're enjoying a nice cup of lemony Earl Grey, Bruce revisits the topic.

"I can fly soon?"

"In the next two weeks, they said."

"Why wouldn't they tell me that? I'm a legal adult-"

"And I've got your medical power of attorney. They have to tell me – and besides, you were unconscious, sir."

 

* * *

Julia and Marie came to say goodbye a few days before they were due to return to America. There were arrangements in place for Bruce to spend six weeks in a private rehabilitation hospital about an hour from Gotham.

Alfred was privately of the opinion that, after his seven-year absence, Bruce became edgy when he had to spend time away from the city. They'd been in the Hotel Hof Weissbad for almost three months now, and it was starting to tell on the young billionaire.

Julia descended on Bruce in a tsunami of affection and silk scarves. It was coming in to winter now, and she seemed to scorn a nice sensible coat in favour of brightly coloured things that didn't seem capable of holding in much heat.

Marie, meanwhile, was more reserved.

"You will promise to get better, hmm?" she demanded, standing over Bruce in his wheelchair like some sort of indignant grandmother. "You will not let that old fool hinder your recovery, will you?"

"No, ma'am," Bruce promised with a grin. "I won't let him hinder anything, I swear."

Julia was badly hiding a fit of giggles as she ate her way through some of Bruce's seemingly infinite supply of grapes. Alfred scowled, but he knew Marie meant it affectionately.

"So you are leaving in the morning, then?" she asked imperiously, causing Alfred to roll his eyes behind his glasses.

"Yes, we are," Bruce said, leaning over the bed to reach for his scarf. "And I intend to have one last look around the gardens before we go. Would you mind accompanying me, Marie?"

Oh, the Wayne charm worked even on a seasoned battle-axe like Marie, Alfred noted with no small level of amusement. It was almost insulting that Bruce could make her smile and blush like a schoolgirl with just a question, whereas it had taken Alfred years to even get her to listen when he asked her to marry him.

Not that it had made any difference, of course. She'd refused, found herself pregnant and insisted that she could be autonomous. Hmmph. He'd never liked that – he'd insisted on sending money to her, despite her protests, and had put his foot down and insisted that Julia go to school in England.

"Thinking, Papa?"

He smiled at his daughter and heaved himself to his feet, wondering if it was about time he got his second knee replaced.

"Always, dear," he said, holding out a hand to her. "But I'll have plenty of time for that on the plane tomorrow. Would you like to get some tea?"

 

* * *

There were more nightmares that night, according to the doctors the next morning. Alfred had been expecting that though, so he wasn't unduly worried. He knew that if things got really bad, he'd be more than capable of injecting a sedative into Bruce now that half the younger man's limbs didn't work.

And so it was that Bruce rather clumsily wheeled himself out of the hospital with dark rings under his tired eyes, reluctantly taking his place in the back of the waiting ambulance while Alfred had the luxury of riding in a car. The airstrip wasn't far away and the journey was short, and then they were on the jet.

"Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Wayne?"

"Do you think anyone will put me breaking my back with what Bane did to Batman and come up with the truth?"

Alfred looked up, his gaze harder than usual in order to overcome Bruce's reasonable worries.

"Of course not, sir, seeing as how you were in Switzerland at the time – remember?"

Bruce leaned back in the deep seat, his fingers digging into the cream leather. Alfred knew that his charge was in pain but too proud to admit it.

Then Bruce nodded.

"I remember," he said, and his eyes were haunted even by his usual standards. "I remember it all."

Hmm. Perhaps some therapy was in order, as the doctor had suggested.

"Do you remember the night of the fight, sir?"

 

* * *

Bruce's recollection of having his back snapped – not broken, mind, but snapped across Bane's knee – had been disquieting, to say the least. Alfred had been sure to slip a sedative into the whiskey Bruce had reluctantly accepted when he'd finished speaking.

Now, sitting across the narrow space of the plane, he contemplated things. Alfred often contemplated his life in Wayne Manor, with the Wayne family. He could remember his first encounter with Thomas Wayne as though it were yesterday, see it in his mind's eye.

_He'd been assigned to the mess more as a thank-you than anything else, but there were whispers that it was because he was getting old and needed to take things a little easier._

_Hmph._

_He'd been helping the quartermaster for months on the quiet, though, so he didn't really mind. Better in here, in some ways, than out there having to order young men to shoot other young men who had been driven to the battlefields in a mad fit of misguided patriotism and bloodlust._

_The tent flap opened, letting in a gust of dry Afghani heat, and the newest arrivals with the US Medical Corp walked in, talking and laughing amongst themselves._

_Alfred was distracted, however, by a fight that had broken out between a young American lieutenant and one of his Arabic counterparts. They were speaking two different languages but their stance, the way they stood opposite each other with nothing but hatred on their faces, spoke a language that everyone in the mess could understand._

_They were disrupting lunchtime. Worse than that, they were making idiots of themselves, and Alfred wouldn't have that – not on his watch._

_He slipped out from behind the serving table and strolled idly across the vast expanse of canvas that served as the floor of their portable canteen._

"' _Scuse me, gents," he said pleasantly before spinning quite suddenly._

 _It was over in a matter of minutes, but there was a murmur of approval going through the British ranks at least now. So, he really was_  that  _Pennyworth, was he? Interesting._

_One of the dashing young American doctors caught him as he finished his shift behind the serving table to introduce himself._

" _Thomas Wayne," he said, holding out a hand. "I hear you're thinking of getting out of this game?"_

" _Maybe," Alfred said cautiously, unsure as to where this was going. "Why d'you ask?"_

" _Well, I saw how you dealt with those boys when they were fighting," he replied, his accent a soft drawl that Alfred couldn't place. "And my wife's having a baby at the start of next year. We're on the lookout for a new butler, and we need someone tough."_

" _Tough, hmm? Why's that?"_

_The young doctor looked surprised._

" _You heard of Wayne Enterprises, Colonel Pennyworth? In Gotham?"_

" _I have," Alfred said, still uncertain. Butlering, hmm? Interesting…_

" _Well, I own it. I'm one of those Waynes, so you can see why we need someone tough, I'm sure."_

 

* * *

Alfred watched Bruce sleep, his head slumped onto his shoulder as he snored slightly. He doubted that Thomas Wayne ever had something like this in mind when he called Alfred  _tough_.That child he'd talked about having his back broken by a steroid-pumped madman with designs on Gotham because that child was actually a masked vigilante who fought crime to deal with the guilt and anger he felt for having survived the attack which claimed the parents' lives?

No, Thomas Wayne hadn't been expecting that. But they did say that one should expect the unexpected.

 

* * *

 

The hospital near Gotham is pleasant. It's an old building, not unlike Wayne Manor in style but considerably smaller. Bruce seems to feel almost at home here and is obviously much more comfortable than he was in Switzerland. ****

There is also the delightful revelation that Bruce will be cared for in their suite, so Alfred can relax in the sitting room and not have to worry about Bruce being bored and lonely and, above all, isolated in a hospital room.

There are several doctors who worked with Bruce's father before his death, and though Bruce is uncomfortable with their reminisces of his parents he welcomes them graciously and is a charming host.

Selina Kyle's notable silence goes unmentioned until the day she comes to visit, and all seems to be forgiven. Alfred isn't sure that he approves, but her appearance seems to have a positive effect on Bruce and so he says nothing.

Within a week, Bruce has practically mastered his wheelchair and is much more mobile than before. He's also brighter and more willing to actually have anything to do with anyone besides his doctors and Alfred, and has taken to spending the evenings in the hospital's library.

 

* * *

Alfred is more than a little surprised to run into a familiar face in the lobby of the hospital as he returns from a trip to Wayne Manor to pick up more clothes for himself and Bruce.

"Dr. Leyton!" he exclaims, shifting the two bags into one hand to greet the tall, slight blonde man who served as both friend and colleague to Thomas Wayne for so many years.

Will Leyton looks only slightly embarrassed.

"Alfred," he says with his characteristic warm smile. "It's been too long. Is Bruce still here?"

"Indeed he is," Alfred says, suspicious now. Surely he would have heard if any of the Leytons had been struck down by a mysterious malady? They're stalwarts of the society scene, and news always trickles back to someone who's been serving members of that same scene for as long as Alfred. "Why…?"

Will Leyton's sigh speaks volumes. It can only be one person – Imogen, his third daughter of four. He'd never made a secret of the fact that she was his favourite by a long shot.

"It was Sam's anniversary last week. His second one. Things just got on top of Imogen and…"

The way Will trails of implies a certain level of frustration.

"Oh, who am I kidding?" he says angrily. "She slashed her wrists, Alfred. My girl. She tried to kill herself."

 

* * *

 

Alfred feels like a bad man to think it, evil, even, but at least he can comfort himself with the knowledge that Bruce did not inflict his injuries on himself. 


	2. The Billionaire

_**Broken.** _

When Bane's knee drove into Batman's back the world, for Bruce Wayne, became a very different place. He felt his spine snap, felt his legs become useless, felt his bones break as he tumbled down the front of the building and landed with a sickening thud on the street below. He was dimly aware of Alfred and Selina lifting him and gingerly moving him to the stretcher before putting him in the back of the ambulance. He knew that Selina sat beside him all the way to the airfield, the private one that backed onto the grounds of Wayne Manor, the one reserved for the Waynes and their nearest neighbours, the Drakes, but he couldn't hear a word of what she said to him that entire time.

All that he could register was that he was broken, ruined, and that there wasn't much beyond the pain.

_**Moved.** _

The plane wasn't so bad at first. He knew that Alfred had sedated him and given him something that might have been an epidural, because there was nothing at all from the middle of his back down. He lay unmoving, because he had no choice, and tried to figure out where precisely his back was broken, and what other injuries he had. He could feel the crack in his cheekbone, the dislocated shoulder, the broken nose, the cracked collarbone… He'd need more than just his back fixed. He wondered how long it would be before they'd be able to tell him whether or not he'd be able to walk.

He could feel the painkillers wearing off and it was excruciating, but he couldn't give in. Even now, with his legs useless and his body more battered than he ever remembered it being, his pride wouldn't allow him to admit weakness.

_**Surveyed.** _

It had been horrible to have those doctors and nurses poking and prodding at him, moving him onto this stretcher for this test and that bed for that test. His back was mind-blowingly painful, and from what he'd picked up, he was going to be here a while. His French was imperfect and he was only semi-lucid, so he wasn't getting everything the medical team said, but it didn't sound good.

They reset his nose, relocated his shoulder and set his collarbone. He was going to need surgery on the broken bones in his legs, and on two of his ribs, but they were leaving those until he was going under for his back. They seemed almost pessimistic about his back, which was annoying. He had to walk again, he  _would_  walk again, but the medics seemed doubtful.

_**Drugged.** _

He hated this lethargy that was induced by the cocktail of drugs in his system. Anaesthesia, sedatives, paralytics to control the seizures, anti-anxiety medications to try and halt the nightmares-

The nightmares got worse with the drugs, though, because he couldn't wake up from them. No matter how badly he wanted to simply jump off the roof when Bane approached him. No matter how much he wanted to pull his parents out of the way when Joe Chill fired his gun. No matter how much he wanted to go to the other building and save Rachel.

No matter. He was thankful that Alfred remembered about the jazz music, though, and that helped him sleep a little. Still, his dreams were haunted with his father's dying words, with Rachel's screams, with Bane's sadistic roar of triumph as he'd held the Broken Bat high for all the world to see-

He had just enough strength to roll over before he was sick.

_**Changed.** _

Nothing had come of the operations on his back. It had been five weeks and four operations, and still he had no sensation from his third lumbar vertebra down. While he knew that most of the operations so far had been restructuring his back to allow for his spinal cord to be repaired, it was infuriating to spend that much time under anaesthesia and have nothing to show for it.

Okay, so his nose was fixed, and probably looked better than it had before (given that it had been broken while he was away, and had only now had an actual doctor look at it). So what? He'd suffer a face like the Joker's if it meant he could walk again. He had to walk again. He needed to. If he couldn't walk, how could he be Batman?

When Alfred had told him about Rachel's letter, it had at first been difficult for him to understand why she refused to see that he was willing to give up Batman for her. He'd meant it wholeheartedly, but now… He understood. He knew that she'd been right, as usual. Batman wasn't something he  _did_ , Batman was something he  _was_. Perhaps more so than Bruce Wayne had ever been.

He'd changed over the years, more times than he could count. Alfred had probably documented his various progressions in a notebook somewhere. He'd have to ask about that some time.

But he'd changed. He wasn't entirely sure he knew who he was anymore. It worried him that the main reason he wanted to walk again was so that he could once more define himself as a mask-wearing vigilante.

_**Scared.** _

Another two operations and still no change. He didn't want to admit it – in fact, he'd  _never_  admit it – but he was frightened. He couldn't quite see how he was supposed to make his parents proud like this.

But then Julia, Alfred's adored daughter, had exploded into his room, and that look on Alfred's face, the gleam in the old man's eyes, had assured Bruce that the only way he could disappoint his parents would be to give up. He knew that giving up would disappoint Alfred, and Alfred was a good barometer as to how his parents would have reacted to things, Batman aside.

That didn't change the fact that he was terrified, but he began to plot. He made plans, rough plans, as to how he could fight against the contagion that had taken hold of Gotham from a wheelchair.

_**Questioned.** _

Ah, the doctors had finally snapped and asked what had really happened. They knew he hadn't been involved in any skiing accident. His injuries weren't right for such an accident, and besides – they all knew he'd arrived at the hospital directly from the airfield and that his back had been broken then. They all knew that if it were a drunken car crash, there would have been something other than morphine in his system. They all knew that he was lying.

Alfred had smoothed over the whole thing by establishing trust funds for Bruce's neurologist's children, of course, but their curiosity had raised some worrying questions.

What would people think when Bruce Wayne turned up in Gotham, paraplegic, just after the Batman had been publicly paralysed? Would anyone put two and two together and prove that they'd passed elementary school math?

Jim Gordon would. Jim Gordon would  _know –_ although Bruce had his suspicions that the Commissioner had known the truth for a while now.

He needed a means of stopping people from making the connection. Batman had to remain active.

_**Stunned.** _

He wasn't prepared for hesitance on Alfred's part when he finally asked for news of Bane.

"Well? Have they caught him yet?"

Alfred reread the article on the computer screen in front of him, just to be absolutely sure. He seemed surprised. Uncomfortable. Bruce wondered at that.

"You could say that."

"What does that mean, Alfred?"

"It appears there was a fire-fight, sir. Bane is… Well sir, he's dead."

Bruce slumped back against his pillows, his face expressionless beyond the constant creases of pain he can feel forming around his eyes.

"Dead."

"So it seems, sir."

Bane was dead. The spectre of the man who had rendered him useless was no longer a threat. He could heal without having to worry about this happening again.

His infamous determination returned. Now he could do this. He knew he could.

_**Warned.** _

"This surgery is your best hope, Mr. Wayne, but I have to warn you – it's extreme."

"Aren't all spinal cord surgeries extreme, Doctor?"

"Indeed, Mr. Wayne, but this is still borderline experimental – it'll either reattach the severed nerves in your spinal cord or render you paralysed for the rest of your life with no hope of improvement. Do you want to risk it?"

Bruce held out a hand, ignoring the warning voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Alfred.

"Where do I sign?"

_**Emboldened.** _

With the hope of the new surgery looming bright before him, Bruce began to move around more, willing to suffer what he saw as the indignity of the wheelchair because it was, to him, a short-term solution.

Unbeknownst to Alfred, he'd spoken to the medical team and arranged for the removal of his scars. He was aware that he'd need months of physical therapy and probably more help than Alfred could offer, so it made sense to have them removed. There would be too many questions if he still had them in the hospitals back home.

_**Assured.** _

When Alfred told him that he'd be going home soon, he requested a meeting with Dr. Bertrand. The man had performed all of the spinal surgeries and Bruce wanted to pick his brains on the timeframe for recovery. If it was as long a road as he suspected, he'd need to find some way of hiding the fact that he was Batman.

He remembered someone that may have been able to help, and called an old friend. Jean-Paul Valley agreed to come to Gotham to meet him when he got home, and Bruce felt comforted in the knowledge that his secret was safe.

When Dr. Bertrand performed a few simple tests and Bruce realised that he really did have sensory function in his legs and that he hadn't been imagining it, he felt beyond relieved. The realisation that there was a minute amount of motor function too left him euphoric.

_**Missed.** _

It was nice when Julia and Marie came to say goodbye, nice to feel part of a family again. Whenever Julia had come to visit Alfred before, she'd treated Bruce like a younger brother, something he'd always liked about her. He'd miss her and her effortless warmth when he returned to Gotham, just as he'd miss Marie's imperious manner and whirlwind affection.

But he missed Gotham,  _home_ , more than he could miss Julia and Marie.

He would never admit it to Alfred, but he also missed Selina, just a little bit.

_**Returned.** _

He was relieved to find the airfield empty of press when the jet rolled to a stop. He knew that there were going to be plenty of people seeing him in his wheelchair in coming weeks and months, but he wasn't quite ready for that yet. He wasn't quite ready to see anyone at all, much less someone who wanted to exploit his new-found weakness for entertainment purposes.

He hated that he needed Alfred's help to manoeuvre himself into the back of the Bentley. He hated that it took him fifteen minutes to settle himself against the soft cream calfskin leather seats before his lower back stopped aching.

He quite enjoyed Alfred's surprise when the older man helped him change and saw his bare chest for the first time since before Bane. He found Alfred's shock at the absence of scars from his body amusing.

_**Coddled.** _

The nurses and doctors in Switzerland had pushed him to the very limits of his abilities, forcing him to strain with everything he had to achieve the tiny amount of movement available to him in his lower extremities. He'd always reacted well to pressure, excelled under it, and now…

The doctors and physical therapists here in Gotham seemed afraid to annoy him, which wasn't doing him any good whatsoever. He needed someone to push him. Needed someone to bully him into trying harder.

He called Dr. Bertrand and offered him a very large sum of money if he'd come to Gotham and continue his previous course of treatment. He also offered to buy places for the doctor's children in an Ivy League college of their choice. The neat Swiss man was on the next available flight.

_**Relieved.** _

Selina's visit was more than welcome, as much as a distraction from the monotony of doctors and physiotherapists as anything. It helps, too, that she gives him a much more visceral account of how the city has coped in his absence than Alfred would.

She assures him that things have been relatively quiet since Bane was taken down. He breathes a little easier with the knowledge that his city still survives.

_**Surprised.** _

Bruce feels clumsy and awkward as he gets used to the wheelchair. Despite Alfred's optimism, he's  _not_  used to it. The doctors keep telling him he'll  _get_ used to it, but he doesn't  _want_  to. He wants to  _walk_  again. In fact, despite their doubt, he  _will_ walk again, but-

Imogen? Imogen Leyton? What on earth was she doing here?

He wheels himself into the library and clears his throat as he approaches the woman in the window seat with the long fair hair, just in case he's wrong and it isn't Imogen-

She turns around, looks only mildly surprised, and smiles.

"Hi, Bruce," she says quietly, sounding not tired but  _weary._

"Hi," he says back, wheeling himself carefully across the room. "I… I wasn't expecting to see you here."

Another of those weak smiles, and then she holds up her left arm. Her loose sleeve falls back to reveal the bandages around her wrist and forearm, and the sunlight glints momentarily on the diamond ring on her finger.

"I didn't take Sam dying as well as everyone thought I did," she says, her voice bitterly humorous. "Seems being a widow doesn't suit me. I…"

He reaches out and touches her leg, mainly because he can't reach her hands.

"People don't understand loss until they experience it themselves," he says quietly, his mind on Rachel.  _She was going to wait…_

"No," she says after a moment of shock. Her fingers wrap around his. "No, I don't suppose they do."

And then, a few minutes later, something hits him.

"Wait, no one told me you and Sam were  _married."_

"I've been Imogen Hunter for eight years now, Bruce," she says with a smile. "Just one of the many things you missed while you were away."

He considers this.

"Well, maybe you could fill me in then."

_**Scared shitless.** _

He's so nervous that he might just throw up, but he has to be strong. He has to pretend that this doesn't faze him, that he's not in the least perturbed by his current situation.

The doors of the elevator ding open, and he wheels himself onto the floor he shares only with Lucius and Jessica. He's pretty sure he can handle their company for a few hours.

"Mr Wayne!"

Jessica seems genuinely pleased to see him, which is a good start.

"You want your coffee, or are you on anything that you shouldn't mix with caffeine?"

"No, I'm good for caffeine," he tells her with a smile. "Thanks, Jessica. Did I miss much while I was away?"

She gets up and starts preparing his coffee – black, two sugars – and chats over her shoulder as she does so.

"Well, there was a little trouble in Metropolis, one of the manufacturing plants was being sabotaged, but Mr Fox paid Mr Luthor a visit and fixed it right up," she says before handing him the porcelain and settling herself back behind her desk. "Other than that, things have been pretty quiet these last couple of months. Stock has been rising pretty consistently, employee satisfaction is steady enough – all in all, a good quarter."

That's a relief to hear, and he makes small talk with her while he sips his coffee and ignores the burning ache in the small of his back. Jessica keeps typing and interrupts their conversation several times to answer the phone.

In the end, when the fourth person asks to be put through to whoever's in charge, Bruce takes the phone for something to do.

He's just finishing on the phone when the door of Lucius's office swings open. He hangs up and wheels himself around with the intention of greeting his CEO, but he's distracted by the tall blonde woman who emerges behind Lucius.

"Imogen?"

She looks around, startled, and smiles when she sees him.

"Bruce! It's so good to see you!" she says, coming forward and hugging him. "I heard about your accident – how've you been holding up? Have you killed Alfred yet?"

Her reaction isn't surprising – few people if any are really aware that she attempted suicide, and by pretending not to have seen him since he came back from Switzerland – since he came back from the Middle East, really – she's protecting herself.

"Alfred lives, and I've been worse," he replies, smiling up at her. "Want to catch up?"

She checks her watch. "Sure, I'm on lunch now anyways," she says with another smile. "Where to, m'lord?"

"Well, I can provide transport," he says, patting his knee. There's some feeling there, which is an improvement. "You need to provide directions."

"Bruce-"

"C'mon, Mo," he teases. "Take a roll on the wild side."

And then she's sitting on his knee as he wheels them towards the elevator, filling each other in on everything they've missed in each other's lives since last they spoke, almost a decade ago.

Of course, they know that they spoke just a few days before, but that's their little secret.

**Author's Note:**

> Written prior to the release of TDKR and much more in line with comic canon than movie, this was also a sort of prequel to a long fic of mine that has since been deleted. Alas and all that. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> (also massive apologies for the ever-changing tenses, mea culpa)


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